


The Long Shot

by chaineddove



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:51:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaineddove/pseuds/chaineddove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ashe receives a gift from a suitor, and Balthier finds himself at a loss, but sometimes the only way to fix something is to break it first.  A happy ending against all odds, if not quite in the manner either party envisioned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, here's how this bit of madness came about: Grasshopper challenged me to write a Balthier/Ashe fic which did not have a tragic ending. Needless to say, turning down a challenge from my apprentice would have presented a huge loss of face, so I had to write it.
> 
> In this chapter, Ashe makes the only decision she can justify as rational. Balthier is neither amused nor happy, though he does attempt to joke about it. But really, sometimes, the only way to fix something is to break it first.
> 
>  _”We won’t say our goodbyes,  
>  You know it’s better that way,  
> We won’t break, we won’t die,  
> It’s just a moment of change…”_  
> -OneRepublic, “All We Are”

When the first of the expensive and thoughtful gifts comes from Rozarria, she knows that her brief flirtation with madness is over. She can barely keep from an attempt to set the lovely and intricate jeweled necklace aflame with her glare; its diamonds and emeralds wink enticingly at her in the lamplight, but all she sees when she looks at the thing is a collar sent to shackle her to a duty she does not want. It has been only two years since her coronation and her advisors have not been silent on the subject of heirs, certainly, but neither have any of them dared to actively solicit suits on her behalf as yet. This, of course, changes everything – given her position relative to that of the scion of House Margrace, she cannot refuse it without good reason, and unless she intends to ally herself with Archadia, which is highly unlikely considering the circumstances, this is the best offer she will receive.

She closes the box with a snap, extinguishing the light of the jewels, and finds herself blinking away tears. Furious, she sends the maid away before the girl can carry tales to the rest of the palace, and when she is alone, she sinks into an armchair and covers her face with her icy, shaking hands, allowing the grief to overtake her, only for a moment, she thinks, only until she can catch her breath.

Until now, it has all been remarkably as Basch foretold it during the war, even if he did so quite on accident; there have been days when the crown weighs heavy on her mind, and those are the days she has found herself taking the servants’ way out of the palace, hooded and cloaked like a thief in the night. It is uncanny the way he always seems to know, as though he has a sixth sense when it comes to her. Invariably she has found him even though he has a well-deserved reputation as a man who will not be found unless he wills it. Greeted with that enticingly crooked smile and a hand outstretched – _did no one ever tell you consorting with pirates will get you kidnapped, Your Majesty?_ – she has always allowed herself to be swept away. It is generally a matter of hours, not days, before duty has called her back into her rightful place, but those hours have been bright with a lighthearted joy she has never found in her regimented life, which is rich with the satisfaction of doing good but devoid of the simple pleasures of adventure, of laughter, of a lover’s embrace.

She reminds herself now that she has always known it would have to end, berates herself as she did at the onset for giving her heart to a man who has never intended to keep it, despises herself for wanting nothing more than to run to him now and beg him to take her away from this. Of course she must marry, and soon; she is the last scion of the royal line in a country barely ransomed from the grasp of the enemy, and she must assure the continued prosperity of her nation. Royalty does not marry for love except when affection is a lucky coincidence of an already-fortuitous match, as it was with Rasler; that aside, she has never dared raise the subject with him because she is quite certain it would signal an ending, and having selected not to be sensible in her choice of companions, she has held tightly to the fantasy for as long as it has been viable. Now it is time to let it go.

And even so, it is nearly dark before she feels herself composed enough to venture out of the privacy of her rooms. She takes a moment to study her face in the mirror, mercilessly lighting all of the lamps until every plane is illuminated, until she can be certain that no sign of weakness remains. She is cool and collected as she steps away from the looking glass; somehow, she feels as though she is leaving something behind as she dons the queenly mask. It is as it should be, she reminds herself. This is who she must be. Everything else cannot be allowed to matter. She almost believes it as she quietly extinguishes the lamps with a thought.

***

It is likely to be only her imagination playing tricks on her, but it seems as though she has never been more exhausted than she feels this fortnight. An unexpected granary fire has the winter reserves in a sad state, and a small but worrisome uprising near the Rozarrian border needs her immediate attention; this is quite aside from the fact that plans for an Academy of Magicks to mirror Archadia’s are not yet complete to her exacting standards, not to mention the slow and torturous reclaiming of Nabudis and all of the petitions she must hear and decide daily.

It is nearly enough to make her forget the jewelbox sitting prominently on her dressing table, nearly but not quite enough to make her forget all of the problems and the heartache it has brought with it. Although she has not said anything one way or another, it is common knowledge by now that something came for her from Rozarria, and from whom, and that is more than enough for speculation to commence. She has resigned herself to it, forcibly stopping herself from replacing the responsible servants in anger – servants talk, of course, about their employers, and there is no reason to throw the gossips into the street and train someone new when this will not solve the problem at hand – but it is increasingly difficult to ignore the meaningful looks from the members of her council.

She is swiftly running out of time, using the recent string of disasters as an excuse to put off the inevitable, burying herself in the distraction of work with the vain hope that somehow an answer will come to her as to how to make this a little easier. She has not seen him in nearly a month, now, and she knows that her silence is not fair to either of them; she knows what she must do, after all, has known from the moment the box arrived, and there is no sense in putting it off. Tomorrow, she tells herself resolutely; tomorrow she will find the time for it, somehow, if she must feign illness and bar her doors to escape from the window. Four hours until dawn, give or take; time enough to lie wakeful and think of what she must say to him.

She is exhausted, but even in exhaustion she remains vigilant; she senses immediately that something is not right as she approaches her chambers. The single guard she insists on – her councilors would give her a regiment if she allowed it, but she refuses to waste men so desperately needed elsewhere – is slumped against the wall in a most unnatural position and the hall is eerily silent. At her touch, the door to her sitting room swings open easily, unlocked. Eyes narrowed, she slips into the darkness with only a rustle of her silk skirts, the faint glow of magick rising around her. Anyone who thinks a tired queen makes easy prey has clearly not listened well to stories of the war; she is worth a regiment alone and unarmed, and the interloper will learn too late that she does not ask unnecessary questions before striking.

“Peace, Your Majesty; I prefer my leathers un-singed, if it is all the same to you.” The voice, sardonic and unexpected, comes from the purple shadows cloaking her window; she is so surprised that the power slips from her grasp like sand. There is a whisper of magick across the room, just a trickle, and the lamp nearest the window bursts into golden light, illuminating him as he leans against the wall, arms folded across his chest and expression unreadable.

She hurries to close the door into the hallway, then rounds on him. “Surely you have completely lost your mind at last; did you _kill my guard_ , pirate? My army, or what is left of it, does not require your sabotage, I assure you!”

“Do not be a fool; he sleeps,” he responds in a tone that is unexpectedly curt. He steps away from the wall and for the first time she notices the door to her bedchamber standing open behind him; on her dressing table, the lid of the traitorous box has been thrown back to expose the delicate golden lines of the unwanted gift. Her mouth is suddenly dry as she looks back to him, taking in the emotion in his eyes, one she has never seen him display before. It takes her only a moment to decipher it: fury, not explosive like her own anger but cold and controlled. “Besides,” he continues, circling around a divan to approach her with a languid, relaxed pace which belies his true mood, “I did not think announcing myself best under the circumstances; I doubt your bridegroom would care to know of your… indiscretion.”

She feels trapped by his gaze as he stops just short of touching her. There is no room for denial between them; she looks up at him and her voice is unnaturally soft when she says, “So, I take it you know, then.”

“Rarely do I have cause to accuse you of foolishness twice in one evening, Ashelia,” he responds sharply. “The lowest street urchin in Lowtown knows; one would have to be blind, deaf and daft not to know.”

The gnawing ache she has been carrying deep at her core for these last weeks has only been bearable when she can ignore its presence; his words and his expression bring it to the forefront of her mind until she can barely think past it. The use of her given name is like a slap – he utters it so rarely, and usually only in moments of tenderness – and she gathers her own frayed emotions around her and shields herself the only way she can think of, with anger of her own. “And so you decided that breaking into my room was an appropriate response to a Lowtown rumor?”

His response is ominous silence; when he speaks again, all of the sharpness is gone and replaced with frost. “I waited for you to come to me yourself and offer an explanation. There was enough between us, I thought, for at least such a courtesy on your part. When it became overwhelmingly obvious that you did not intend to do so, I felt I had little choice in the matter if I wanted answers.”

“And what, pray tell, is the question?” she exclaims, heedless of the rising pitch of her voice when faced with the accusation in his eyes. “What answers can you possibly want from me? My apologies, but I happen to have a kingdom to rule; or did you think such things were secondary to your temporary entertainment?”

His eyes flash, but his tone is still cold, so cold that she can practically feel it against her skin. “Is that what this was?”

“Wasn’t it?” she parries hopelessly. “I do not intend to… to clip your wings, never fear. You have made your position crystal clear on the matter, and rest assured, I harbor no illusions of _marriage_.” She spits the word out as though it is a curse. For her, in this moment, it is. He says nothing, but he looks taken aback for the first time, and so she presses on, her words as harsh as she can make them. “A fine pair we would make, at any rate, considering your chosen occupation. And somehow, I doubt sincerely you are eager to spend the rest of your life dealing with sanctions from a very insulted Rozarria – if they stop at sanctions.” The shadow of war lies heavy on them both. “My people have no _bread_ ,” she says, suddenly exhausted.

He finds his voice at last as she completes this tirade: “Perhaps you should sell the ostentatious monstrosity. That will feed them awhile, I imagine.”

“Is this a _joke_ to you?” She is shouting now, utterly undone by the sardonic humor.

“Do you see me laughing?” he responds quietly.

“I do not know what you want me to say.” There are tears in her voice, and she thinks there are tears in her eyes as well; his face glimmers and wavers in her field of vision as they well up and threaten to fall. “I do not know what you want from me at all.”

“Apparently,” he replies, “the feeling is mutual.”

She cannot stop the tears after all; they stream down her face and she looks at the floor, ashamed of her own weakness. Never in all of the difficult times they have weathered together has she allowed him to see her weep. He says nothing, offers no comfort. “Go,” she tells him, her voice barely a whisper. She does not think there is anything else to say.

“As you desire, Your Majesty.” A scuff of shoes on the windowsill, and he is gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we move on to Balthier's point of view, and get a bit of insight about Ashe and Balthier's arrangement up until now. Fran and Vaan make appearances, and Larsa and Penelo get mentioned (for anyone who is wondering, yes, this does take place in the same universe as [A Change of Perspective](http://archiveofourown.org/works/277297)). Fran is, as always, ruthless and fabulous. Vaan, as always, puts both feet in his mouth (possibly to keep Fran from stepping on them, uh).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“I'm on the road to who knows where,  
>  Look ahead, not behind , I keep saying  
> There's no place to go where you're not there…”_  
> -OneRepublic, “Prodigal”

Fran graciously gives him the space to brood for the next two weeks, and although she doesn’t mention it, he can tell she disapproves. Most people cannot tell a disapproving viera from an indifferent viera, but he is not most people, and her ears tend to twitch just slightly when she is irritated. Two weeks into the courteous silence and the twitching ears and a lot of sky, he finally snaps, “Well, out with it. If you’re going to think so loudly, you may as well say it.”

She gives him a level look and responds, “I do not need to tell you when you are being a fool; you are perceptive enough, for a hume, and you can surely work it out yourself.”

“And what would you have me do, then?” he snarls. He knows he is spoiling for a fight but he cannot help himself. He has become accustomed to using short squalls to clear his mind, as Her Majesty is always willing to cross words, if not blades; he and Fran rarely argue, because they are too much alike in all of the most comfortable ways, but at this point, she is the only opponent readily available.

Of course, she is also less than cooperative; she shrugs one shoulder, an annoyed gesture, but her face remains impassive. “You wish to goad me, Balthier?”

“Maybe,” he says with some disgust.

“Very well, then,” she replies in an even tone. “If one of my sisters is foolish enough to form an attachment to something not of her wood, she is advised to throw herself at the mercy of the wild beasts until she is either cured of her fancy, or devoured.”

“I can see how well you followed that advice,” he mutters; as a viera adage it is exactly as merciless as can be expected.

Her ear twitches. “Yes,” she agrees. “You can see. For this foolishness, I am denied the embrace of the wood. So tell me, Balthier, how much do you value the embrace of the sky?” He curses, but she continues, pitiless. “I knew the answer to this question, once,” she says. “It is why I chose you. But I am no longer certain of it, and I do not think even you know, anymore.”

“You are uncommonly cruel today,” he tells her.

“I will bleed for you,” she responds matter-of-factly. “More telling, I will even lie for you. But I will not lie _to_ you. My silence, therefore, was meant as a kindness.”

“That will teach me to ask for your opinion,” he says with a heavy sigh; if anything, he feels worse.

“Unlikely,” is her less-than-comforting outlook.

“Oh, go away,” he says. They know each other well enough that he trusts she will not be insulted; silently, she departs and leaves him alone with his sky. There is a storm coming, he thinks, and that should be distraction enough for anyone, but the gathering clouds make him think of a queen's eyes, brimming with tears as she sends him away.

***

The storm breaks overhead, and he lies awake that night, with the ship safely parked in a lonely stretch of desert and the wind buffeting her sides. He thinks of another stormy night, of rain on the glass of her window, of her heart pounding against his hand and her lips hot and hungry against his. He had raindrops in his hair, he recalls, and had nearly ended his life in the most ignominious way possible by slipping from the ledge of her window – but she had had an invitation in her eyes, when last they parted, and considering how long it had taken him to tease that invitation out of her, a few scrapes on his knuckles and one ruined vest seemed an insignificant price to pay. She had laughed at him for it, later. He remembers it well; at the beginning, she had laughed so rarely.

That night they had become lovers; she had come to him wrapped in silk and scent and shadows, and placed her hand over his lips, and asked him not to say anything at all as her hands drew his soaked clothing aside. _Take what is offered and do not argue._ She had ensorcelled him with no more than a touch and a whisper; he would, at that point, have promised her anything, but all she asked of him was silence as she took him apart.

 _I love you,_ she had told him when the storm had blown itself out and the night was silent. It seemed the most obvious thing in the world. _More than I can say; certainly more than is wise. But you’ve known that all along, of course._ Her eyes were inordinately sad as she traced the line of his jaw with one slim, white hand.

 _I’ve had my moments of doubt,_ he told her, trying to retain levity in the face of what she did to him; he had felt, for a few moments, as though the entire world had shifted in her arms. _Though I thought you might come around sooner or later. But I must tell you, love is not meant to put such a melancholy look on your face._

 _Perhaps it is easier for you,_ she told him.

 _It does not have to be difficult. Come away with me,_ he countered; it had come so easily, this invitation that he never should have offered, that he had in fact never intended to extend.

She had laughed, but the laugh contained little in the way of genuine humor. _You must never ask me that,_ she had said. _Just as I know I cannot ask you to stay. But I am here now, and you will stay, tonight._

 _I will stay,_ he agreed.

She has never asked him for anything since, nor has she offered any promises, although she is fundamentally a creature of commitment, a woman who should by all rights demand them. He has always assumed that this is entirely for his benefit, an acknowledgement that he is a bird constantly on the wing, but now he cannot help but feel slighted, and even angry – she might have _asked_ him about it, might have found the time to talk with him, to hear his feelings on the matter, even if he cannot clearly formulate what they are. She might have _tried_.

And so, of course, might he. He can acknowledge that the blame cannot be placed squarely on her shoulders, can acknowledge even that talking would likely have solved nothing, but as he listens to the storm and the sound of his own even breathing, he wishes he had a thread of a promise, however fine, to pull her to his side.

***

They run into Vaan in the Cloudborne a few days later. He is, as always, exuberant, waving them over and offering to buy drinks, which proves that he has, at least, grown up a little – the Vaan they first met would never have offered to pay for anything. Penelo is not with him, which is both a curiosity and a relief; the girl is nowhere near as unobservant. Vaan chatters blithely away, clearly unaware that anything may be wrong, and that along with a pint of madhu makes Balthier feel a great deal better about life in general.

Penelo is in Archades, as it turns out, helping with the preparations for the festival that will be held next month when the Emperor reaches his majority – “I don’t know what Larsa thinks she’s able to do for a fancy party like that – Penelo’s not exactly the high society type – but pointing that out apparently just made _both_ of them mad.” He shrugs sheepishly. “I’ll give her a week to cool off; she’ll be bored senseless by then.”

“You’ve spent some time developing this plan, I take it,” Balthier says dryly; as far as he’s concerned, Vaan’s inability to see what is right in front of his face is going to bite him sooner rather than later.

Fran gives him a bland look and says, “It is not the most foolish plan I have ever heard.”

“See?” Vaan beams. “Anyway, it’s lucky I ran into you; Larsa told me to let you know to check your mail for your invitation. Apparently, the moogles say you’re hard to reach lately.”

That is his fault entirely; irritated as he is, he has strayed far from civilization these last weeks. He hasn’t particularly wanted to be reached, though he can only assume that she hasn’t made any attempt. The first step, he knows, has always been his to make. “We’ll be there, naturally,” he says. “Wouldn’t miss it.” If he is honest, an evening of feasting and dancing in the Archadian capital is not his idea of a good time right at the moment, but good relations with powerful people must be maintained when one is no longer able to rely upon one’s anonymity for protection.

“Hey, speaking of parties,” Vaan says, “I heard a crazy rumor at the Sandsea a few days ago.” Fran gives him a pointed look that Balthier can clearly interpret as _shut up, now,_ but it is obvious that Vaan isn’t paying attention, or else has not yet learned what it means, because he continues cheerily: “They’re saying Ashe is getting _married_.”

“You never will learn to hold your tongue,” Fran mutters with a disgusted shake of her head; Vaan, predictably, gives her an uncomprehending look and says, “What? I thought you’d want to know!”

“You’re a bit late with that happy news,” Balthier tells him with a cool tone perfectly matched to the indifferent expression on his face; he has spent years developing the look, and it has served him well. “Her Majesty – and you might want to remember she _is_ your queen, for future reference – told me herself.”

Vaan looks flabbergasted. “But…… uh. Huh. I thought they were making that one up, like the time Kytes said his neighbor’s sister’s friend who works in the palace saw Ashe – the queen – Her Majesty – whatever – sneaking in through the kitchen with a torn dress at not quite dawn –”

Fran does not laugh – quite – as she says, “An interesting standard you have, for what is true, and what is not.”

Balthier, who remembers that occasion very well, finds himself struggling to maintain nonchalance. “Dalmasca needs something to celebrate.”

Vaan looks between the two of them, clearly bewildered. “But I thought that you – _ow!_ Fran, that’s my _foot_!”

“Subtler means were proving ineffective,” the viera says.

After they have left the tavern, he tells her crossly, “I do not need protecting, Fran.”

“Oh yes, you do,” she disagrees. “From yourself, especially, as you have chosen the least constructive means possible of handling your affairs.”

“I do not think,” he says acidly, “that she ever intended to offer me a say in the matter.”

“Oh?” Fran says, arching one brow ever slightly above the other – an expression of astonishment, from her. “And you now require her permission?” He cannot find anything at all to say to that. “Consider that I am only trying to provoke you into action,” she tells him. “It matters little what manner of action so long as it _is_ action; you are swiftly becoming insufferable. You style yourself the leading man, but I see little enough evidence of anything but sulking on your part.”

“This is not a children’s story,” he says. “Sometimes, there is nothing to be done.”

“Sometimes,” she agrees. “And sometimes, there is a sky fortress falling upon a city full of people destined to die in terrible agony. When this happens, one’s wisest course of action is, of course, to surrender gracefully. Is this one of those times, Balthier?”

He wants to tell her, _yes_ , but it is a trick question, because he rarely makes the wise choice; and besides, it seems like a concession, and he has never been good at giving quarter. Instead, he tells her, “I’ll let you know, once I’ve worked it out,” which, at least, seems to make her satisfied for the moment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Ashe gets advice from everyone, including Basch, and decides that frankly, she doesn't like any of it. Rather than doing as she's told, she comes up with a Plan B.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“And I don’t know if this could break my heart or save me,  
>  Nothing’s real until you let go completely,  
> So here I go with all my thoughts I’ve been saving,  
> So here I go with all my fears weighing on me…”_  
> -Kelly Clarkson, “Sober”

On a sunny autumn day, she ends her morning council session with a heavy but resolved heart. “One final matter,” she says. “You are all aware, of course, of the delegation I am heading to Archadia in a fortnight for the celebration of the Emperor’s majority and a continued strengthening of diplomatic ties. I have also chosen to accept the invitation of Lord Al-Cid Margrace for a state visit to Rozarria two months hence. While I may be available for emergencies, I leave Lord Azelas to oversee topics of immediate concern in my absence. You are dismissed.” They look, as she imagined they would, equal parts surprised and pleased as they file out.

Lord Azelas lingers. He has aged a great deal in her years of absence, but Vossler’s father is still a powerful-looking man, as well as the closest thing to a friend that she can claim in this group. He has been the first to stand by her from the earliest days of her campaign to reclaim her throne and he has remained a staunch supporter; although she has a notion that he originally pledged his family to the rebellion in hopes of putting his son on the throne when such an opportunity presented itself, he has not withdrawn his support in spite of the circumstances. All of this is why she is shocked at the next words he speaks, with a quiet smile: “It will be good for Dalmasca to have a king again.”

It takes her precious moments to regain her composure and find the words to answer him, though he does not appear to notice her dismay. “Pardon? Lord Azelas, if you’ve anything to say about the way things are being done…”

He waves her words away and chuckles. “Oh, you’re doing a fine enough job, my lady, but even you must admit that a man’s touch is needed. It is no reflection upon you, but surely you would be relieved to return to some manner of normalcy.”

“I see.” She wants to shout, _I have sacrificed all I love for this country; how can you tell me now that while I am welcome to save it, I am less welcome to rule it now that the saving is over with?_ She does not shout, but her voice is several degrees below freezing as she says, “I was not aware that things were, by anyone’s definition, ‘abnormal’.”

“Do not misunderstand me,” Lord Azelas says, clearly noticing her worsening mood. “You are strong, my lady. Stronger than any woman should ever have to be. But with the country in this state…”

“Yes,” she says. “I know the state of my country rather well, I think. I am one of the key reasons that it still exists.”

“Now you are angry,” her advisor says ruefully. “That was not my intent, I assure you. But my lady, you can surely see that this… this transient state of matters cannot be allowed to continue indefinitely. You are all we have, and you may rest assured that we are properly grateful, but there are matters of succession to see to, and _that_ , my lady, should be any queen’s primary concern.”

She allows the silence to stretch for a few painfully uncomfortable moments, and is only slightly mollified when the man wilts under her pointed stare. “And you, Lord Azelas, can be assured that I know my duty better than anyone, but do not think for one moment that I will allow myself to be shuffled aside.” She watches him until, at last, he submits and lowers his gaze. “I believe I dismissed you.”

After he is gone, she walks to the window and throws it open. It is autumn, but the breeze from the desert is as hot as the air it stirs. She looks into the sky, thinking that this is a moment in which she most desperately needs an escape from her life, but the blue is bright and glaringly empty; no help will come unless she finds some way to help herself. “It will not be the first time,” she murmurs under her breath; the ache in her heart is nostalgically familiar.

***

She writes to Basch, although she does not call him by name, of course. Larsa has been good about delivering these missives on her behalf without betraying her confidence, but she does not wish to bring her old friend trouble if the mail is compromised. _I feel at an impasse,_ she writes. _I am prepared to do what must be done, but I cannot help feeling that this is all wrong, somehow. Sometimes, I think saving the world is much easier than living in it; in war, there is one true path, but in peace, nothing is so simple. I am filled with doubt._

She receives a reply less than a week later; Larsa, as always, is efficient. _The mantle of responsibility weighs the heaviest of all,_ writes Basch. _By your choices, you decide also the life and death of a people, and thus these choices cannot be made lightly. A queen who does not know doubt is not fit to be queen; I believe in your ability absolutely. I presume much on our long acquaintance, but I feel I know you well enough to offer this advice: duty may be bitter, but bitterer still is the potential of failure. For love of your country, once you have chosen your path, you cannot waver._

 _It gladdens my heart that I will see you shortly; if you have need of me sooner, you need only ask._

It is both an encouragement and a reprimand; she feels tears stinging her eyes as she reads it. She wishes he were here, that they could argue – although of course they have never argued; that is a poor habit she has gotten into recently, with another man altogether. She wants to tell him that it is precisely her love for her country that causes her to waver, that she cannot imagine a foreign dignitary is better suited to managing Dalmasca’s progress than she is, that she is not defined by the dress she wears but also by the sharp point of her blade and the sharper point of her intellect. She wants to shout, to clear the air, to defend her right to be selfish when it appears to also be in the best interest of the people whose livelihoods depend on her. She wants to ask him what it is that they fought and bled for if not to keep a foreign king from Dalmasca’s soil, and what sort of queen she is, really, if she quietly allows it to happen now. The Rozarrian who seeks her hand is progressive enough, if rumor is to be believed, but no man rises so high without a love of power, and she cannot imagine he will be content to leave her at the helm.

She cannot commit these thoughts to paper, of course, and he is too far away. She answers only with _You have given me much to think on._ There is nothing else to say.

 _I must not marry,_ she writes in another letter, one that she never sends, _or perhaps it is more accurate to say that I cannot. I wish I could blame you, for you have given me the freedom I did not know I craved; now I cannot quietly bow my head and become what I am told to become, especially not when I know the greater good is not what is in jeopardy – it is my soul, I believe, that tradition requires be sacrificed. Why is it, do you think, that the more I give, the less it seems to matter?_

 _It is moments like these when I sorely miss your counsel; though you may laugh and tell me I have brought this on myself, I do not think you will agree that I am an unfit queen, for all that you may wish it were otherwise. I wonder what you would say, if I asked you now to save me?_

 _I recall, again and again, your offer to take me away with you. Today, I wish I had agreed._

She tears the parchment into tiny pieces and feeds these pieces to the fire. In the dance of its flames, she thinks she can almost see her thoughts tumbling chaotically, one over the other, in a futile attempt to find a way out.

***

The preparations for her coming visits to Archadia and Rozarria begin in earnest; along with council sessions and army inspections, she now has dress fittings and appointments with local merchants to select the appropriate gifts. It reminds her, uncomfortably, of the months she spent preparing to be a bride; perhaps the gowns she is being pinned into now are more conservative, as befits a widow and a ruling monarch, but the underlying feeling is exactly the same. The whirlwind of activity which seemed so exciting and new at sixteen now makes her feel tired and incongruously old. She thinks a great deal of her childhood, and her father, and her disastrously short marriage, and she wonders what those she has lost would have to say about the quandary she finds herself in now. Would her father be proud? Appalled at her unwillingness to bow to fate, although bowing to fate had killed him? Would her brothers understand? Would Rasler?

She hates the fuss, but it is her seamstresses who give her the idea, in the end; she has given them leave to speak freely as they work, and is therefore treated to the daily gossip of their enviably simple lives. One afternoon, as they take in the waist of a new gown – she has lost weight, again – they are animatedly discussing the scandal of one’s sister’s neighbor’s niece getting out of her father’s insistence that she take religious vows by coming home one day and announcing she is with child. One chuckles and tells the other, “Well, no woman ever needed a _husband_ to have a _baby_ ,” and Ashe jerks so unexpectedly that she ends up with no less than three pins in her side.

Long after the effusive apologies have faded and the women have curtsied and departed, she stands at the window, playing their innocuous conversation over and over in her mind, feeling that she has unexpectedly stumbled onto the perfect – if unconventional – solution to keep her kingdom in her own hands. Indeed, no woman has ever needed a husband to have a child – and _she_ certainly doesn’t need one to produce a child of the proper bloodline. Once she has an heir, the succession will be secure, and no self-respecting nobleman – Rozarrian, Archadian, or otherwise – will want to tarnish his reputation by getting involved in the scandal that is certain to ensue. She understands that she is considered an attractive marriage prospect only because she is yet young and childless; a man who marries her can be crowned king and ensure his firstborn child will inherit a kingdom. That sort of incentive is enough to cause any potential husband to overlook the fact that she is a widow, but she does not believe any man would have so little pride as to overlook the existence of an illegitimate child, especially if she clearly expresses her intention to pass the throne to _her_ firstborn, regardless of the father.

Unladylike and unbecoming as it seems, as a subversive plan, it is perfect. All she needs is the proper co-conspirator – someone who she can be sure will not come to the surface at an inconvenient time to make demands of either her or the child. She needs, specifically, someone who she can trust absolutely to keep his silence, and someone who she is perfectly certain would scoff at the idea of being made king – else the entire plot will unravel and she will end up exactly in the place she is trying to avoid. Few men would willingly refuse a crown – but as her luck would have it, she knows one such.

 _I knew you had a devious mind in there, Your Majesty._ For the first time in months, the memory of Balthier brings a small smile to her face; oh, she knows her entire council will be appalled, but she imagines that he will be quite proud, once she’s brought him around to the idea. After all, he is the one who taught her: if the rules are inconvenient, that simply means they must be changed – and if he doesn’t like the new game, well, he has no one to blame for it but himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Larsa throws a party and attempts to meddle, Ashe does _not_ explain herself, Balthier loses his temper, and everything pretty much goes as one would expect from there. Also, Al-Cid, Penelo, and Basch have cameos, and Fran steps on Vaan's foot, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“Right now there’s a war between the vanities,  
>  But all I see is you and me,  
> The fight for you is all I’ve ever known…”_  
> -OneRepublic, “Come Home”

He has not spent much time in Archades these last years, although he comes back, now and again, the way he imagines a criminal returns to the site of his perfect crime; it is always a little jarring to walk these streets as a relative stranger when he might well have been known by everyone, had he remained in his childhood home. He has no illusions over his own skills – if he had not rejected the path set for him, he imagines he would have done rather well. He has, after all, a certain affinity for politics, even if he bears no particular love for them.

Instead, when he returns here, he wanders the old city, trades favors, bargains with surly merchants and flirts with pretty girls in taverns, spends entirely too much money on the only decent tailoring available in Ivalice, and revels in his relative anonymity. Those few who would profit from his return are now gone; quite the contrary, he has a standing invitation to take advantage of the Emperor’s hospitality, though as a point of pride he rarely accepts. Fran prefers not to accompany him on his “escapades,” as she calls them, but she is here at his side now, and although viera have become more common in the Empire’s capital, she still gets her share of curious looks. Usually, she would make an appropriately pithy comment about her lack of love for the capital, but, perhaps out of respect for his tension, she keeps her silence.

He knows that the Dalmascan delegation has arrived. He watched her ships passing overhead the day before; the small navy she has carefully reassembled is comprised of particularly fine, sleek vessels – no real surprise, as she had consulted with him before having them built. The thought brings him equal parts discomfort and heartache; he only realizes now just how involved in her life he has been.

Today, Rozarrian ships are in the skies; he would know the ostentatious designs anywhere. People in the streets raise their eyes to stare, and he acknowledges that it must be an uncomfortable sight for them, as well – the presence of one’s lifelong enemy in the skies above is never reassuring. But of course, it is this that Larsa and his contemporaries seek to change: there are no enemies in the new Ivalice, or at least none who are willing to announce themselves as such. Dialogue has replaced warfare, and alliances are made around negotiating tables. It should bring relief – war is terrible for business, even when one’s business is piracy. But he is not inclined to be sensible about it. He cannot help looking in the direction of the palace district, wondering what is happening behind forbiddingly tall walls.

“We may go now, if you wish it,” Fran says, quietly.

“No,” he responds. He has not yet decided what he will do, when he is faced with her again. “We are not expected until tomorrow. It would be dreadfully uncouth of us to come uninvited.”

She does not mention the fact that they cannot be considered uninvited guests when they have, in fact, received invitations. “As you wish,” she says. “I will leave you for now, then. This place makes it difficult to breathe.”

“Go ahead,” he responds. He does not say it, but he agrees with her. In fact, given a better alternative, he would not be here at all, but it seems he has chosen to be responsible, and he cannot very well back out now that he is here. “I will catch up with you later.”

She sways away, and he, after a few more moments of intense wondering, heads in the opposite direction to get a drink, deciding it can never be too early for liquid courage.

***

He knows that he will see her, he suspects that it will be difficult to avoid her, and he is prepared to suffer through it for the span of a few hours if only to prove that he _can_ , but it is still galling that she can stop his thoughts just by entering a room. She wears something shimmering and golden and deceptively simple, with hatefully familiar jewels winking at her throat. She enters on Marquis Ondore’s arm, and next to him she appears strangely small, nothing at all like the warrior queen she has proven herself to be.

“She looks thin,” murmurs Penelo, as Larsa steps forward to greet the Dalmascan queen; the girl seems to have little to do while the Emperor is occupied with his illustrious guests, and has predictably dragged Vaan over to say hello immediately upon spotting him and Fran through the crowd.

“She looks fine,” Vaan disagrees. “And would you look at that necklace? How much do you think that thing is _worth_?”

Al-Cid Margrace appears, trailed by his entourage; he wears a very pleased smile as he bows over her hand to kiss it. She smiles at him and says something indiscernible. “Half a kingdom,” Balthier says through his teeth. “And perhaps a fair share of dignity.”

“That’s pretty vague,” Vaan complains. “I was thinking more in terms of gold.”

“Why, do you intend to rob her of it?” Fran says with clear amusement.

“Vaan!” Penelo exclaims.

“I was just _asking_ ,” Vaan says defensively.

He lets them argue as he watches her take the Rozarrian’s arm and glide into the room. As though she can sense his scrutiny, her eyes meet his over the crowd, and for a moment, he holds her gaze. Her lips part as though she is about to speak, although it is improbable as he is not standing anywhere near enough to hear her. Penelo is right – her face is narrower than he is accustomed to, and there are shadows under her eyes, although they have been skillfully concealed with cosmetics – but with a jolt he realizes that she does not look unhappy. The corners of her mouth turn up in a smile as she looks at him, and he has to turn away.

“Might I propose you save all talk of larceny for another occasion?” he suggests to Vaan in the most lighthearted tone he can muster. “Certain parties may get the wrong impression.”

“ _I’m_ not the one who brought up…” Fran gives the boy one of her long, bland looks. He sputters into silence, which does mean, at least, that he has learned something.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” Penelo grumbles.

“On the contrary, I’m delighted you came.” The Emperor still looks to be more boy than man, especially when compared with the fully armored Judge in his shadow, but he and Vaan are about of a height, so it is clear that he has grown. He is resplendent in intricately embroidered robes of state, though these only serve to highlight his youthful face – but they are a deliberate choice, of course, over the armor that would have suited him better; he is certainly intending to draw a parallel to his father and not his brother with his choice of attire. At twelve, Larsa was not a stupid boy; at sixteen, he is someone to be reckoned with.

Basch, predictably, says nothing at all. Larsa’s smile, however, appears genuine as he greets them in turn with every bit of courtesy shown to visiting royalty and nobility. “Yours is a difficult invitation to turn down,” Balthier says when his turn comes. “One cannot discount the allure of the food alone.”

“And yet you visit so rarely.” The sweet smile never slips as the boy tells him, “I am particularly glad to see you; Vaan expressed some misgivings that you would choose not to join us.”

“And you have a big mouth,” Vaan grumbles. Fran steps on his foot, again, and he yelps.

“Think of where you are,” she tells him quietly.

Larsa only laughs.

“As you can see, Vaan was mistaken,” Balthier says with a nonchalant shrug. “He so often is these days.”

Vaan’s response is perfectly predictable, and he cannot help but be grateful for the diversion – the boy may be a perfect idiot on occasion, but he cannot deny that it is convenient sometimes. By the time the ensuing tantrum has been resolved, he has managed to slip away.

***

“It is rather unfortunate, isn’t it?”

He is leaning against the ballroom wall, torturing himself by watching the focus of his thoughts swirling around the floor in the arms of various gentlemen, when the Emperor finds him again. “What,” he quips, “the Rozarrian concept of formalwear? It is rather much, I agree.” He attempts to feign nonchalance, although he does not think it likely that this particular observer will be fooled.

As expected, Larsa gives him a look that very clearly tells him he will have to do better than _that_. “Hardly.”

“In that case, I have no idea what you mean,” he says; he knows there is an edge to his voice, just as he knows that boy or not, the Archadian Emperor isn’t someone to cross, but still he allows the warning to creep into his words.

Larsa does not seem perturbed. “Oh,” he says, “it is only that people forget so quickly what once was worth dying for. Although I like Lord Margrace well enough, his father is less… flexible. I do not relish having him for a neighbor, even by proxy. But then, I suppose, there are few alternatives.” He shrugs. “Which is why I say it is unfortunate.”

“The lady seems to have made her own choice,” Balthier responds. “If you really think so little of her ability to keep her kingdom in her own hands, perhaps you should have offered for her yourself.”

“The thought crossed my mind.” He cannot help an incredulous look at the boy, then; Larsa shrugs. “Briefly. It is no fit solution; Rozarria would take it poorly after all my talk of peace. It is regrettable that I have no living cousins, and there is no one in my cabinet who would be suitable.”

“She is a person, you know,” Balthier says quietly, coolly. “Not a bargaining chip.”

“She is both,” Larsa replies with a quiet callousness that reminds Balthier uncomfortably of just who he is speaking with. “But, as someone who can call her friend, I would have to say that a man who remembers that she is _also_ a person would really have been best.” He gives Balthier a considering look.

“No,” Balthier cuts him off. “What you intend to say, I think, is that a man who is also _Archadian_ would have been best.”

Larsa smiles, seemingly immune to his temper. “One does not preclude the other.”

“House Bunansa is no more,” he snaps. While they have been conversing, Ashe has quit the dance floor and is nowhere to be seen. He has a sudden urge to hit something. “Excuse me,” he says through gritted teeth. “I believe my presence is urgently required somewhere that is not here.”

***

He finds her at last at the edge of one of the side terraces, which is, fortunately, otherwise deserted – the night is cloudy and unwelcoming. She is having what appears to be a quiet and heated argument with a man in heavy armor, whose bulk shields her almost entirely from view, and he can only be grateful that her companion is Basch and _not_ her suitor, else the desire to strike him would certainly end in an international incident.

“I need to talk to you.” Her eyes are almost perfectly round with shock as he inserts himself between them and grabs her wrist. He cannot be bothered to care that he is interrupting. “ _Now_ ,” he adds, in case the request isn’t clear enough.

“I had hoped to…” She trails off, then nods. “Very well, now.”

“My lady…” The voice from inside the helmet is rich with warning.

“Go,” she tells Basch with an imperious wave of her hand. “Or do you not think I am safe in the company of a man who has saved my life a dozen times?”

It is clear that Basch recognizes that he is not faced with a rational man, but still he chooses to heed her order and steps back. “Think, before you do something foolish,” he says quietly.

“I have had quite enough of being told I am a fool,” Balthier tells him with a venomous glare. “You may all wish to come up with a better insult.”

“I believe,” Ashe interjects, “that he was referring to me. I, however, have also had quite enough. Did I, or did I not, tell you to go? We may speak later, I assure you.” When Basch has retreated, she turns her glare on him. “Your subtlety leaves me breathless, as always. But in truth, I was hoping we might speak, if not quite like this.”

“Should I apologize that this is inconvenient?” he snarls. “Frankly, I don’t care.” He releases her wrist, resisting the urge to drag her against him now that she is so close, with her lips stained pink and her eyes bright in the darkness. With a frenetic sort of energy, he begins to pace. “ _None_ of this is convenient. That is something we will both have to swallow. But you had best understand one thing: I have no desire to be made King of Dalmasca.”

Her eyes are hot enough to burn as she watches him pace, back and forth. “I do not believe anyone has attempted to wrestle a crown onto your head.”

His chuckle is entirely devoid of humor. “Oh, that is where you are wrong, Your Majesty, although I must express some relief that at least it is not _your_ mad idea. Not that you are much better, selling yourself to that decorated dandy without so much as a by-your-leave –”

He catches her hand just a breath away from his face; she glares up at him and hisses, “If you are intending to make me angry, you have succeeded. How _dare_ you presume to judge me as though you have _any_ –”

He cuts her off with a kiss bruising in its intensity. She fights him, for a split second; he feels a dark and visceral pleasure when she groans against his mouth and yields, her nails tiny pinpricks of pain where she grips his shoulders. He knows his touch is rough, possessive, as he runs his hands over the flowing silk of her gown and her bare back, but she is urging him on now with a touch that is no gentler, her thigh wedged between his legs until he can barely breathe for wanting her. He understands, with the bit of rational thought that he still possesses, that he is a hairsbreadth away from taking her like a wild man on the terrace, with the threat of discovery any minute, and with great effort, he pushes himself away. Her eyes are clouded and her lips are swollen; before she can open them to speak, he tells her, “No more do I intend to be sent away like a toy you have grown bored with, Ashelia. Inconvenient or not, this is something you will have to live with.”

“That isn’t at all what I –”

“If you say one more word, I may murder you,” he threatens. The way he feels, the threat is not entirely empty. “We will fight about this. Later.” He places a hand against her lips, none too gently, before she can protest again. “It has always been your terms, hasn’t it? Not tonight.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Ashe's plan gets an unexpected kickstart. Then she kicks some metaphorical butt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't even ask me how awkward I feel about the first scene. This chapter is the wholesale reason for the rating.
> 
>  _“So slow down, there’s some kind of blessing here,  
>  But you have missed your cue,  
> So keep your eyes set on the horizon,  
> On that line where blue meets blue,  
> And I hope, that silver lining,  
> Oh, I know it’ll find you soon,  
> Because I have sailed a thousand ships to you,  
> But my messages don’t seem to make it through…”_  
> -Rachel Platten, “1,000 Ships”

She will recall it later in disjointed fragments: the catching of her breath, the pounding of her heart, the insensible stream of her thoughts as she stumbles after him into the darkness. There is a gazebo – cold, drafty, its climbing roses long bare of flowers and half-stripped of leaves – and the flicker of moonlight through the patches of clouds. She wants to tell him, _touch me,_ to lose herself in him – she has had too many nights of cold and silence – but he has forbidden her words, and all she can hear is the hammering of her pulse and the rapid panting of his breath as he crushes her against him. Like an answer to her unvoiced demand, his hands are on her, everywhere – her hair, her face, her shoulders, her back, her breasts, under the thin silk of her gown, skimming up her thigh until she trembles, fingers plunging into her until she bows back in release against a pillar, biting her lip to keep from crying out.

She is dizzy, falling, and the stone under her back is cold but his skin is feverishly hot under her hands. She fumbles with his clothing, so many layers before she can finally reach him, and it is his turn to choke back a groan as she grips him, as she pushes him to the edge with her hands, his hips bucking against her touch. They roll on the ground, struggling with clothing and with each other; there are dry leaves in her hair and a smudge of dirt on his cheek. His eyes burn into hers as she straddles him, as her breathless, openmouthed kisses trail down his chest and belly. She is riding his anger, and her own, and she wants, more than anything, to make him come undone, but his hands grip her hair and drag her back for more kisses, hard enough to bruise; she bites his lip and drags what is left of his clothing out of the way.

She has given him the silence he asked of her, but now there are words, pleas, demands, all delivered in frantic whispers. Her skirt is bunched around her waist as he rolls her over, and his eyes are still fixed on hers as he pins her wrists above her head and fills her, quick, hard, again and again until she can do nothing but arch to meet him, her head thrown back as her mind and body erupt.

Later, as she is helplessly gasping for air, there is unfamiliar laughter, and approaching footsteps, and it is only then that she realizes where she is, and in what state, and then they are in a desperate scramble to reassemble their clothing and get out of the path of discovery. She cannot find any words, or perhaps she cannot find her breath, and before she knows it, she has been delivered through the servants’ corridors into her guest chamber, with wrinkles and tears in her gown and leaves in her hair. “Later,” he promises her again, and then he kisses her and is gone, leaving her leaning drunkenly against the post of her bed for her maids to find.

***

Weeks later, she still does not feel well, and she can only blame the mad lovemaking in a drafty gazebo in the middle of the night on the eve of _winter_ for her aching head and unsettled body. It is, she thinks, without a doubt one of the most irresponsible things she has ever done, but he has not reappeared since that night, so she cannot scold him, and she cannot find the energy to scold herself. All she can do now is attempt to work through it, as it proves irritatingly resistant to healing magicks of any kind, though gods know she tries anyway.

Still, it is not until she has emptied her stomach of all its contents one morning and she is propping herself up on hands and knees in the privy that she begins to suspect something else is afoot; by the time her maid comes running with a healer, she is dazedly getting to her feet and counting days since she last visited her preferred discreet apothecary in the Lowtown Bazaar. As she attempts not to heave again, she realizes with a sudden burst of clarity exactly what ails her. The healer puts his hand on her forehead, but she does not need to see the stunned look on his face to know what he will say, and she cannot decide whether to laugh or to cry; sagging against the cool tile wall, she does both.

***

Under strict orders from the healer, she remains abed for nearly a week, though in truth, if she limits herself to tea and unleavened bread, she feels well enough, if somewhat weak. Then again, she suspects the strict order for bed rest has more to do with a futile attempt to contain the rumors which are sure to emerge; she supposes that in the eyes of her councilors, insinuating that she is gravely ill is far preferable to the truth of the matter. They come to see her, in groups of two and three, looking uncomfortable and bewildered; she sits in bed as though it is a throne, wrapped in a dressing gown, and schools her face to perfect neutrality. They shift from foot to foot and mumble at her, wishing her a speedy recovery as though she really _is_ ill, and not one of them can bring himself to ask the pertinent questions, though perhaps this is because they realize she will not answer them. Lord Azelas does try, once, to mention offhandedly that she was seen leaving the premises of the Archadian ball with Judge Magister Gabranth, and she laughs and asks if he _really_ thinks she would allow Larsa’s lapdog anywhere near her, and that appears to be the end of that; no further assumptions as to the identity of her lover emerge. One of the older members of the council, a remnant of her father’s days, comes alone once, and stammers something unintelligible about potions which can be acquired on the black market at a high enough premium; once she realizes what he is about, she has him thrown out, and no one else suggests anything comparable after that.

If she is honest with herself, she cannot say that the unexpectedness of it sits entirely well with her, either – it is one thing to construct a strategy and quite another to find herself in this position without warning. She _had_ hoped to speak with him, at least, to give him time to come around to the idea, but it seems that, as always, her life is destined for chaos. She cannot even write to him at first, for there is always someone hovering at her bedside, as though she truly is an invalid. The only thing she is able to pen under this scrutiny is a brief note of apology to Lord Margrace, cancelling her visit to Rozarria and pleading ill health; though she does not doubt the efficiency of his information network, it is unlikely that he has any inkling of what is really happening yet, and the proper niceties must be observed.

She spends a great deal of her unexpected free time thinking, and wondering. She thinks of herself as a child – her wild moods, bright laughter, dance lessons, shooting contests with her brothers, hair ribbons, a beloved pet chocobo. She wonders about Balthier’s childhood, for there is much he has never told her, and it is hard to imagine him an obedient son of a father descending into lunacy. She wonders, too, about the child that is now growing within her, about her own capabilities as a parent when she can barely recall her mother, about Dalmasca’s uncertain reaction to an unconventional heir, and about the child’s father and the inevitable and unenviable task of apologizing to him, assuming he can keep quiet long enough to hear her out.

She composes a short missive, finally, while the young healer’s apprentice meant to be watching over her is dozing in the sitting room; she keeps it brief and candid, knowing that her only hope is in reaching him before he hears the news from some other quarter. _You asked for my silence, and this I granted against my better judgment, but the time for it is past,_ she writes at the end, and feels the unexpected sting of tears in her eyes. _I have done all that I can to keep from making demands of you, but I feel that now I have no recourse but to ask, and hope you answer. If the things you have said to me are true, if indeed you love me as I love you, beyond the realm of all reason and practicality, then I beg you to come to me now, and we will see if we can, perhaps, change our fate._ She seals it and buries the unmarked envelope in a pile of other correspondence meant to be posted, and then all she can do is hope for the best.

It is, without a doubt, one of the longest weeks of her life.

***

When at last she is pronounced fit to dress and leave her quarters, she feels an enormous sense of relief, which is mitigated somewhat by knees made unsteady by lack of exercise and an unpleasantly slow roll of her stomach in protest. Still, she cannot deny it feels good and right to once again stand and address her council, most of whom seem to be looking somewhere over her shoulder, if they are facing her way at all. She thinks she might pity them, a little, these men who clearly have no idea what she is thinking. She can imagine the litany in their heads now – thoughtless, irresponsible, reckless, irreverent – but she is their queen and it is high time they realized that this will not be changing. And so she tells them, with the most regal of tones, “It is past time that we spoke frankly, you and I. I first wish to thank you for your concern as to my well-being these past days, but while I appreciate your kindness and patience, I feel that I must point out that I am with child; I am not dying of an incurable illness.” There is a communal intake of breath at her bald statement of the fact, but she continues calmly, as though she has not distressed them. “Yes, I have said it, and it will be common knowledge soon enough, so we had all best come to terms with the idea now, because I do not intend to waste time discussing it in this chamber again.

“In light of this development, the Rozarrian suit will, of course, be withdrawn. I believe you are of a consensus that this will end in tragedy for Dalmasca, but I have thought long and hard on this very subject, and am here today to remind you of something you seem to have forgotten after a handful of years of relative tranquility.” She stops to meet their eyes; one by one, they look at her, guilty, nervous, angry, afraid, impassive. Quietly, she tells them, “This country has been through war and famine; we have been occupied, humiliated, stripped of our resources, subjugated and faced with annihilation. And yet I am standing here today, a woman and a warrior, your queen and the proud daughter of the Dynast King’s unbroken line, and I am telling you, plainly, that I will die before I allow a foreign empire to place its yoke on Dalmasca’s neck once again.”

They are silent, now, but they are all watching her intently. “I hope that I have made myself quite clear,” she stresses. “We have, at times, had our differences, and I’ve no doubt we will clash over them again. I value your counsel, and that is why you are here, but I will hear no more talk of a marriage of convenience that will ensure Dalmasca’s erasure within one generation. Dalmasca will have her heir, as required, and if this is difficult for you to accept, I invite you to try harder or resign your post.”

No one says anything, and so she sits with all of the grace that she can muster for the moment, unwilling to let them see her weak knees, unwilling too to admit that she is tired and frightened, more so than they are. She has cowed them easily, but they are not her greatest obstacle to achieving all that she desires, and she does not doubt that things will likely get considerably less pleasant before they begin improving. Still, she thinks as she folds her hands neatly in her lap, it is a start. “Present the next order of business, please.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we get both points of view, Larsa makes a gamble, Balthier makes a decision, and..... well, I did promise a happy ending, didn't I?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“I never thought that you would be the one to hold my heart,  
>  But you came around and you knocked me off the ground from the start,  
> You put your arms around me,  
> And I believe that it’s easier for you to let me go,  
> You put your arms around me and I’m home.”_  
> -Christina Perri, “Arms”

Trouble with the auxiliary engine has him stranded in the far reaches of the Ogir-Yensa Sandsea for the second week running; it is nigh impossible to bribe a decent mechanic into making the trip out here, and so they make do, somehow, jerry-rigging the thing with what tools and knowledge the two of them possess. Fortunately, things seem to be on the right track at last; the Strahl’s engine purrs healthily as he runs a final diagnostic, and he is fairly sure that he will, at least, manage to get her as far as Rabanastre safely, where he will then have an excuse to linger for a few days while he waits to obtain the necessary part to eliminate the problem.

Fran enters the engine room with a stack of papers in her hand; he gives her an inquisitive look, and she tells him, “Mail.”

“Lovely, so now we get the moogles out here,” he grouses. “Where the blazes were they when we needed them?”

She shrugs and replies, “I believe the sender likely paid uncommonly well.” Her expression is carefully blank as she tosses him a cloth to wipe his hands of engine grease, and then two envelopes, one thick and sealed with the crest of house Solidor, one slim and unmarked. “Shall I leave you?” Fran inquires.

“Why would you –” He turns the large envelope over. In the neat, precise hand of a professional scribe, it is addressed to _Lord Ffamran mied Bunansa_. He curses, fluently and with feeling, for at least a solid minute. “That manipulative little weasel _didn’t_.” He rips it open with no regard for the seal, which cracks neatly in two, and reads.

_My Lord,_

_We regretfully remind you that the Emperor’s patience is finite, and the three years of back taxes owed by your family will be taken out of your estate at the turn of the year if you do not come forward promptly to reclaim your lands and repay your debts to the great Archadian Empire._

It continues in this fashion for several pages, listing his _supposed_ assets as well as all fines and fees to be levied against him if he does not comply with the Empire’s requirements, and ends with a veiled threat that despite the gracious pardon of his family’s war crimes, he may yet lose his title if he continues his pattern of neglect and avoidance. His eyebrows are surely near his hairline by the time he has finished with the accounting, and he cannot fathom what the Emperor could be playing at. There is a small note at the bottom of the page in Larsa’s unmistakably elegant hand: _Think, before you refuse._

“The power has actually gone to his head,” he mutters. “He’s as mad as his brother.” He supposes he will have to stay away from Archades long enough to miss the deadline, though he cannot help wondering exactly how the Emperor assumes this threat could possibly work, when he has made it clear on multiple occasions that he is not the least bit interested in anything left behind in the old man’s wake.

That is when he remembers the second letter, the slim envelope of creamy, expensive parchment, with the corners bent out of shape just so, a sign which tells him exactly who penned the short note inside. _I take great risks with this missive, but I pray only that it reaches your hands before you have heard this news from another quarter; recent history considered, I cannot imagine that such a misunderstanding could end well for either of us. In truth, such tidings should be delivered directly, but under the pressures of time and my untimely frailty, I beg your forgiveness in advance and hope only that you will come to hear me out…_

It is not a long letter, but it seems to take him an eternity to read it, perhaps because he must stop to force air into his lungs. It is as though the words on the page are in a language he does not quite understand; he stares at them as though they will become something more comprehensible any moment, but comprehension does not come. He does not notice Fran’s approach until she kneels on the floor across to him. He can feel her hand on his cheek through a sort of haze, but nothing is registering as it ought. _If the things you have said to me are true, if indeed you love me as I love you, beyond the realm of all reason and practicality, then I beg you to come to me now, and we will see if we can, perhaps, change our fate._ What is a man meant to say to a plea such as this from a woman such as her? He feels a little as he did at his choice to remain on the Bahamut, knowing he risked death in order to give her a gift, one last act by which she could remember him kindly. It had seemed, at the time, simple, even inevitable.

“Do we set course for Rabanastre?” Fran asks after a few long minutes of silence. She is calm, collected, unruffled; he thinks she likely already knows what he will choose, and he envies her this simple gift of acceptance. Nothing upsets Fran for long.

“No,” he tells her. His voice seems tinny to his own ears. “We make first for Archades.” The decision, it appears, is easy enough after all.

***

His epistles are always brief, when he bothers to send them at all, but this is the shortest she has ever received: _I will arrive as soon as I am able. Stay well in the meantime._ It is thoroughly cryptic – he makes no mention of her letter at all, and from the one brief line of text she cannot even discern whether or not he is angry with her – but she takes it as a good sign. Even if he is coming only to claim the fight he promised her, well, they have fought several hundred times in their acquaintance, and although she finds herself less in control of her emotions than usual, these days, she thinks she will not lose. And so she folds the paper over and over until it is small enough to tuck away into her bodice, and allows its presence there to give her courage.

It is fortunate that she is once again too busy to allow for long periods of introspection or worry. She refills her granary with a purchase from the Rozarrian surplus, allowing herself to be ever-so-slightly overcharged; as a subtle apology, it is not particularly strong, but it keeps discord at bay, at least for now. At the very least, the Rozarrian ambassador does not depart Rabanastre in a huff, even if he does avoid her company, pointedly, for the better part of a month after the news is made public.

She supervises the laying of the foundation for her Academy in the part of the city which is only now being rebuilt from the wreckage of the war. She reviews a proposal for a new trade agreement with the Archadian Empire which includes several uncommonly favorable concessions that she has been seeking for the last year; she also receives a note from Larsa by courier which reads only, _Well played._ She shakes her head, but sends back her cordial acceptance to begin talks within the month – something else to fit into her chaotic winter schedule, but she does not intend to squander the Emperor’s generosity.

Public opinion seems not to have deteriorated to the extent expected by the more pessimistic members of her council; if anything, she appears to be more popular than ever, which serves to cement her feeling that all in all, regardless of what may happen in her personal life, she has still done the right thing. The prospect of an heir has been greeted joyously by most – she is showered with all manner of incomprehensible gifts, and when she receives a minute silver rattle from a very uncomfortable Lord Azelas, she knows that the storm has passed. Penelo mails her a tiny blanket embroidered with lopsided chocobo chicks, clearly sewn by hand; it is both absurd and absurdly touching, and she finds herself nearly weeping over the silly thing for no apparent reason. As one week fades into another, she tries not to worry, applying herself instead to necessary day-to-day tasks of ruling her country, preparing for the impending arrival of her Archadian guests, and attempting not to lose her breakfast on a daily basis.

She sets a discreet watch on the aerodrome, but no familiar ship docks. Then, just as she is about ready to send out a search, he appears – sauntering into her throne room, perfectly at ease, with the other members of the Archadian delegation – and all that she can think, once her hands have flown to her mouth to stifle an exclamation of shock, is that the man still knows how to make an entrance.

***

After the extremely entertaining – and short – audience, during which he struggles not to laugh at her clear bewilderment, she is pulled away by one of her councilors, and he splits from the rest of the delegation to sneak past the lone guard at her door and pick the lock. Oh, he supposes he can now walk the halls with relative impunity, but he is not yet known here, people are bound to talk, and in any case, perhaps certain traditions need to be preserved.

When she arrives and sees him sprawled on her sitting room couch, the look on her face is almost worth the extremely high price he has paid to be here. “I cannot keep up with you,” she mutters as she shuts the door behind her. “What are you doing here?”

“Now, that sounds familiar.” Though his eyes are drawn to her midriff, her gown is draped in such a way that he cannot tell that anything has changed. Still, she looks different – not quite so thin as the last time he saw her, her carefully styled hair a touch longer than he is accustomed to under its coronet – though the mix of exasperation and relief in her eyes as she looks at him is exactly the same as always. He rises and goes to her side, cupping her cheek in one hand as she glares at him. A knot in his stomach, which he was not aware of possessing prior to this moment, loosens. “But I’m semi-reformed, I promise; did you not invite me here yourself?”

She shakes her head, incredulity writ plain on her features. “Strangely, at the moment, it is not your presence here, in my quarters, that I am questioning, _Ambassador_.”

He cannot help wincing; her tone is perfectly matched to Larsa’s – _Well, if that is the best you will agree to, **Ambassador** , I suppose I cannot dissuade you._ – and so instead of answering her question, he tells her: “I thought you invited me here to apologize.”

Far from penitent, she glares at him. “I wrote you _two months ago_ –”

“The paperwork was extensive,” he tells her with a grimace. “Archadian bureaucracy knows no equal.”

“– And instead of answering me,” she continues, clearly settling into her temper, “you have apparently decided to take matters into your own hands – a decision I cannot, for the life of me, comprehend!” She looks dangerously near tears.

“Our mutual friend, the Emperor of Archadia, seems to think that you planned this,” he says by way of response. “Did you?”

Her eyes grow wide. “No, I – no. It is only that… it is complicated.”

His narrow. “So,” he says. “I take that to mean that he was correct in his assumption.”

“You told me not to say anything!” she explodes. “In fact, you _expressly_ forbade it!”

“You’ve never listened to me before,” he points out. “Whatever possessed you to start _then_?”

“You did not have the look of a man willing to listen to reason,” she says venomously.

“This,” he points out, “is not the standard definition of an apology, Ashelia.”

“Who says this is an apology? It barely even qualifies as an explanation.” Throwing her hands up in surrender, she turns away from him and stalks to the window. “Oh, you make it impossible to think sensibly. I had hoped to speak with you before…”

“And if I had refused?” he queries, following her; he puts his hands on her shoulders, and she rests her cheek against his fingers for a moment. “Did you even consider that?” Her reflection in the glass looks tired and careworn. The anger fades.

“I would have convinced you,” she murmurs. “It was the only way that I could see. I was prepared to fight with you about it.”

“I do believe we are covering that ground right now,” he says with a dry chuckle.

“I asked you to come, Balthier, but not to make demands of you,” she responds, leaning her forehead against the glass. “If you are angry – and you’ve every right to be angry, certainly, even if it _is_ as much your fault as mine – then be angry. But I never asked you to bargain your freedom away for me. You’ve no responsibility to me, if you do not wish it.”

“I do not know whether to be touched or insulted,” he tells her. “What I have done has little to do with responsibility, or my freedom; I have taken on little of the first and have retained a great deal of the second. I have told you before – I have no desire to be king; this will not change that, nor would anyone consider the prodigal son of a war criminal a suitable match for a queen, any more than they would consider a pirate. My duties to the Archadian court, such as they are, include only minor involvement in international politics and occasional courier work – I am barely a glorified messenger, with large spans of time to call my own, and little supervision by the crown.” He shrugs nonchalantly, as though it hadn’t come to shouts and threats, behind the locked door of the Emperor’s office, to strike this accord. “But it does offer a convenient excuse to spend at least some of those large spans of time here, all without raising anyone’s suspicions. Frankly, I can sit through a few dinner parties a year, and I assure you, neither your kingdom nor my sense of self will suffer for it.”

“But it wasn’t necessary,” she protests.

“Wasn’t it?” he asks. It takes only gentle pressure to turn her to face him. He runs his thumb over her bottom lip, watching the warmth come into her eyes, and says, “I thought I would meet you halfway. Beyond the realm of all reason and practicality, is that not what you said?”

For the first time since she entered the room, she smiles – a hesitant, hopeful expression. “Yes,” she says. “That is what I said.”

“Then, assuming you still refuse to come away with me –”

She laughs, and tells him, “I think not, pirate.”

“Alas, but one cannot blame a man for trying,” he says with a fatalistic shrug. “I will not make you promises I cannot keep, but, as you once so aptly put it, I am here, now.” He grins. “Besides, how will my child ever learn to handle an airship if I am not here to teach him? Your pilots, Your Majesty, leave something to be desired.”

“The healers think it will be a girl,” she tells him.

“Ah, well, I can be progressive,” he responds with a shrug. “May the gods help us all; I hope she doesn’t inherit your temper.”

“And I hope she doesn’t inherit your hair,” the queen parries. “I haven’t any idea how I would explain _that_.”

He is laughing as he pulls her against him in an embrace that has been long overdue.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this epilogue, we discover that ten years later, not much has changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with me through the course of this little tale. I hope you enjoyed it ♥
> 
>  _”It’s a long shot, but I said why not,  
>  If I say forget it, I know that I’ll regret it,  
> It’s a long shot just to beat these odds,  
> The chance is we won’t make it,  
> But I know if I don’t take it, there’s no chance,  
> 'Cause you’re the best I got…”_  
> -Kelly Clarkson, “Long Shot”

The princess runs into the room, out of breath, hair flying every which way, a grin on her face. She stops in her tracks when she realizes the room does not contain either of her parents, and is in fact empty but for one other person. She looks meaningfully at the shut door which leads into the inner chambers of the family wing. “I wouldn’t,” the viera says – amused viera, at least, she thinks so; she has spent enough time around this one to be very nearly sure. “They are fighting.”

She rolls her eyes – a habit her mother abhors and is trying her very best to break her of, and says, “They are always fighting.” As far as she is concerned, her parents can have a fight about nearly anything – she vaguely recalls one particularly heated argument over breakfast which seemed to be about the proper way to eat an egg, though both of them deny it ever happened if she brings it up.

“Even so,” the viera – who is very definitely amused, as she is smiling slightly – says. “They will finish soon enough.”

“Well, I wish they would hurry.” She plops down gracelessly on the gold and green cushions of the closest couch and stares longingly out the window. It is a perfectly beautiful day, though the heat is already rising in visible waves from the distant dunes. The sky is gemstone-blue, without a cloud in sight, and she wants to be in it, not stuck in her mother’s solar. Now that she is listening for it, she can hear the muted sound of raised voices behind the door, though the walls in the family wing of the palace are rather thick.

“I do not think expressing you impatience would serve you well this day.” With perfect grace – really, between her mother and her father’s friend, it’s amazing that she doesn’t have a complex over her own distinct lack of elegance – the viera sits on the edge of the couch and crosses one leg over the other.

“ _Oh_ ,” she says, as understanding dawns. They are fighting about her. She curls her legs under her and sighs in the world-weary way of a child forced to put up with the incomprehensible whims of her elders. “Mother did say I might go if I didn’t vex any of my tutors this week, Fran,” she ventures after a moment.

“The difference in inflection between ‘might’ and ‘could’ is, I believe, what is currently under contention,” Fran says mildly. “I counsel patience.”

“Father says I come by my impatience naturally,” she grumbles. Fran says nothing, which means she agrees. “Why are they always like this?”

The voices on the other side of the wall are abruptly silenced. “They are who they are,” the viera says with a fatalistic shrug.

A few moments pass before the door to the inner suite of rooms opens; her mother emerges first, smoothing a hand over her hair, then her father. He grins at her from across the room and raises a hand in greeting; she flies from her seat, nearly upsetting the nearby side table in the process, and launches herself at him. He hasn’t been able to toss her in the air for some time now, but he does make a valiant attempt, and she shrieks with laughter before wrapping her arms around his middle and mumbling into his vest, “I missed you.”

He ruffles her hair, mussing it still further, and tells her, “You must stop growing; I cannot keep up.”

Her mother’s voice interrupts the reunion. “If I find out later that she has picked up further _turns of phrase_ from the Phon Coast hunters –”

“That was not entirely my fault,” her father protests, but she can tell he is fighting back laughter. “There was, if you recall, a wyvern.”

“It was a _very large_ wyvern, Mother,” she puts in earnestly, looking up at her parents. “Marik couldn’t help himself.”

“Any more than you could help repeating his words to your swordmaster later?” her mother asks with an exasperated look.

“He was _not_ fighting fair!” she says. “And anyway, I shot him. The wyvern, not the swordmaster. At least, I’m pretty sure it was a him, because –”

“There, you see? She shot him,” her father interrupts easily. “Never let it be said that these little sojourns are not educational. In any event, I’m sure your swordmaster has heard worse.”

“Not from the heir apparent, generally,” her mother mutters, but she doesn’t seem particularly angry.

“She does have a rather good eye,” Fran interjects; she has not risen from the sofa and her expression and tone are relaxed, but this is a rare compliment, from Fran.

Her mother shakes her head, but she is smiling. “Oh, very well. But I do wish the two of you would attempt not to forget the fact that she is only nine.”

“ _Almost_ ten,” she stresses. “I’m nearly grown up!”

“Nearly grown up princesses tend not to run about with their hair ribbons untied,” her mother tells her, but she does step over to her to correct it with gentle and efficient hands. “Am I to assume, then, that starting next week this will no longer occur?”

Fran snorts, which, from Fran, is outright laughter. “Unlikely.”

Hair ribbon arranged, her mother steps back and runs a critically appraising glance over her. She tries not to fidget and is secretly rather relieved when she passes inspection. “Please,” her mother says, “for my sake, if you see another very large wyvern –”

“Shoot him?” the princess ventures.

“Not quite,” her mother replies. “I was going to say, let your father shoot him; he needs the target practice more than you do.”

“I think I’m insulted,” her father says. “If you are so worried about my deficient skill with a firearm, you can always come along.” He nods his head toward the window. “Come out this way; no one will ever know.”

The thought of her mother – poised and lovely, in her silk gown and golden coronet – climbing over the windowsill is not entirely absurd; there have been occasions, once or twice, where she has done exactly that. But today, she shakes her head regretfully and says, “Not this time, I think.”

“For my birthday next week?” the princess asks, because there is only one thing better than a day on the coast with her father and Fran – her mother can be great fun, when she wants to be, but only when no one important is looking. At the very least, the princess has never seen anyone _else_ out-spell Fran in a fight.

“We will have to see,” which, from her mother, generally means yes. “Now go on, before I change my mind.”

Her mother kisses her forehead, and then she kisses her father; the princess wrinkles her nose and turns away, because as far as she is concerned, her parents spend at least half as much time kissing as they spend fighting, and they are wasting daylight. Fran seems to have the same idea, as she rises silently from the couch and heads for the door. “Come _on_ ,” the princess says, tugging on her father’s sleeve. “It is nearly noon.”

With a laugh, he separates from her mother and levels a look full of mock irritation at her. “All right, all right, I surrender. Never enough hours in the day.”

“I demand at least one of those hours to myself, sooner or later,” her mother says with an incomprehensible little smile.

“In that case, perhaps I will stay the week,” her father replies. “But for now, duty calls.”

“ _Finally_ ,” is the princess’ opinion on the matter. “Come along, already; look, Fran has already gone ahead.” Her father finally offers her his hand and she immediately begins dragging him towards the door.

“Fly safely,” says her mother.

“I’ve had just about all I can take of your insults and insinuations, Your Majesty,” her father warns with a perfectly unconvincing frown. “I could fly with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back.”

“Can _I_ pilot the Strahl today?” the princess asks hopefully; in perfect unison, they tell her, “Absolutely _not_ ,” but she is not discouraged. She’ll be big enough to handle the controls any day now, and her father can never deny her for long – and if he does, there is always Fran. Besides, she has the rest of the day to worry about nothing more important than whether she can wheedle them into staying out past dark. If history classes and dance lessons resume on the morrow, well, if she’s honest, she doesn’t mind them so much. But today, the sky is calling.


End file.
